I REBLOG ADULT CONTENT, SOME OF IT DARK. MINORS DNI, ADULTS PROCEED WITH CAUTION. Geek, Gamer, Crafter, desk-slave. 20 years years past 18. --- I post random stuff; you'll probably see a lot of Transformers, Call of Duty: Modern Warfare, or monsters right now. Always on the prowl for good smut. ---
if you're disappointed with Taylor Swift's new album just a reminder that all profits from streaming The Slur Song go towards me purchasing an egg salad sandwich
Um, ACTUALLY this post is extremely misleading, since there are receipts proving that you previously donated $2016 to a charity for homeless LGBT teens and did not buy ANY egg salad sandwiches at all. Clearly not ALL proceeds are going towards egg salad sandwiches and I just think we should be very careful about which artists we choose to support.
When you manage a fabric store in a midwest town, you see this played out in real time. Young women coming in during that first year of marriage - when their husbands go to dental college - pert, bubbling with creative plans. Then, four years on, you help them shift to the reality of balancing budget with creativity - and they learn the value of that inexpensive flatfold table that they used to badmouth - to make that 2nd & 3rd baby their own quilts. And they're exhausted. And they're scared. And they are 1000 miles away from family.
And you have your staff play with their kids while you hold them in the tiny restroom as they come completely undone because they just found out that their golden boy husband is having an affair with the someone he's been doing residency with for the past three years.
He confessed that he'd rather be with the other woman but she's of a different faith and it's more important to have kids than to be happy. And no. No he will not grant her a divorce. And he will not stop seeing the other woman - because he's a man. It's his right.
TRUE story.
Also - She was NOT THE ONLY ONE to fall to pieces in our store for similar reasons.
I loath the ideology of "tradwives". It is a false doctrine preach by Patriarchy not a divine being.
This is 100% what happened to the host mom I've been au-pairing for. And to many other moms my friends have been au-pairing for.
Married out of college, 4 kids, he spent 15 years building up his career while she took care of the house and the kids. When he was earning $600k a year suddenly he started to pull away - she wasn't as pretty anymore, the kids were loud, the house was a mess... She wasn't good enough anymore. He got himself a flat. He got her me and my precedessors to help with the kids. No, they can't divorce, that would make him pay her money for the kids and he didn't like that. Every once in a while a bill would be unpaid. My weekly checks would bounce. We lived in a $1,5mil house around DC and our gas or water was turned off more than once.
Somehow he was always out of money.
By accident she learned from a friend of a friend that he was actually seeing a young lady lawyer for a few years now. It wasn't her, it wasn't lost interest. He was just a piece of shit.
Thankfully, she had family that took no shit and they stood behind her and borrowed her money for lawyers to force the divorce now that she had proof of him cheating. She's spent tens of thousands to get there while he was resisting every step of the way - because without divorce he wouldn't have to pay her alimony, he could just throw scraps whenever he wanted and still pretend to be a good dad.
She's spent tens of thousands and two years to free herself from this man, and when she could finally go to work (thank fuck she finished college) she was earning $25k a year.
She only managed to get away with the support of her parents and family. Through the au-pair grapevine I've known other families like that. Too many. Lady down the street tried to commit suicide when same happened to her - she was from Taiwan and had no support to get free. And people around scorned her for being "dramatic" - women who held on to their places with their fingertips talked shit about her, because their own husbands would never...! Right?
This? This is the kind of shit that first wave feminists and suffragettes were fighting against. Hell, even into second-wave feminism.
This? Is why conservatives want to take away no-fault divorce--because if some dude says no to a divorce and you don't have any (IRON-TIGHT) evidence of cheating? Then you're stuck in that situation and he doesn't have to pay a drop toward you and your kids. He can go get a flat, fuck his mistress, and you will starve with your kids until you can get some kind of proof of him cheating and a judge who likes you.
Now imagine all of this horror movie shit, AND you can't open a bank account without this piece of shit opening it with you. That was what women dealt with until about the 70s when we were finally allowed to open bank accounts with a man's signature.
That is what conservatives and fundies want to take you back to. When this shit was just the fucking norm.
There are old white guys still alive who remember who damn nice it was when a woman couldn't open a bank account without a man's signature and his dad could go live a double life with a mistress with zero repercussions and oh how they slather and drool for those times. And how they have waxed poetic about these halcyon days to their desperate daddy-issues sons now eager to please and without the social skills or emotional maturity to understand the fucked up nature of it all.
I'm willing to bet there's like 2 or 3 Tradhusbands(tm) out there for every Tradwife you see, they just haven't found someone they can sink their claws into. Which should maybe terrify you. This Tradwife(tm) movement should really be considered a canary in the coal mine.
Fem primarchs need to stay bald. If you are making fem Lorgar, Horus or Alpharius, that dome needs to be shiny. Don’t be a coward
I agree with this entirely. If your big-brained rule 63ing of a primarch gets rid of their core aesthetic traits and turns them into Generic Big Titted Woman, you're basic and a coward. The bald primarchs stay bald. Lorgar is covered in tattoos. Konrad is a scraggly, lanky goblinoid. Ferrus has a face like a dropped sack of bricks. Don't be weak.
“For New York City Pride in 1994 (Stonewall 25), Baker created a mile-long rainbow flag that was carried down First Avenue in Manhattan. During the parade, Baker used scissors to cut segments from the flag to be rushed to Fifth Avenue for an impromptu protest march in front of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, the headquarters of New York City’s anti-gay Catholic archdiocese.
^“At the bottom of the image is the segment of the flag cut for the St. Patrick’s Cathedral protest. Photograph by Mick Hicks”
“Gilbert Baker wearing a white sequined dress (right) and other protestors triumphantly march the cut pieces of the mile-long flag past St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Photograph by Charles Beal”
summary: simon takes some precautions when he learns mantises have cannibalistic tendencies
cw: mdni, smut, piv, slight predator/prey if you squint, many liberties taken and likely inaccuracies about the female praying mantis (1.7k)
Simon first saw you at a handover briefing, half the base packed into a room that smelled like instant coffee and damp boots, and you were three seats down with your chin propped on one hand, listening. That was all. But he’s spent his entire adult life reading rooms for the thing that's wrong, and his eye snagged on you and would not come loose, and he couldn't for the life of him say why. Big eyes. Too big, maybe, though he didn't let himself ruminate on it. Arms a touch too long where they folded on the table, the line of them not adding up quite right against the rest of you.
He did not look away like he should’ve. A normal man sees a pretty stranger and has the decency to glance off; Simon’s known for quite some time he was not a normal man – and he fixed on you through the whole briefing… and out into the corridor… and across the next nine days, with the forbearing, unblinking attention of a lion in tall grass. He learned your shift pattern before he learned your name. He could have told you, by the end of that first week, the exact rhythm of your walk from sound alone. He knew which mug was yours, and what the base note of your perfume was: myrrh.
He didn’t find any of this strange – Simon's baseline is strange. The wanting came in effortless and stupid, the way it does for everyone else in the world — he simply routed it through the only instincts he's got, which are a predator's.
It was Soap who ruined him.
Soap caught him at it in the mess — Simon parked against the far wall with a coffee going cold in his fist, focused on watching you eat. Soap followed the line of his stare, found you at the end of it, and grinned like the cheshire cat. "Oh, her," he said, delighted. "Aye, she's one of the hybrids. Mantis." He said it the way you'd mention someone supported the wrong football team. Then, because Soap cannot leave fuck-all alone, he leaned in and cheerfully added, "You'll want to be careful there, big man. Mantis females, ehh— they eat the fella after. During, sometimes. Bite the head clean off and finish the job. Read it somewhere once." He clapped Simon on the shoulder. "Best of luck."
And then he left. Wandered off to find some grub, whistling.
Simon stood very still against the wall, then. Felt the information go into him like a splinter you can't find to pull.
Bite the head clean off?
He looked back at you across the room — you'd tilted your head to listen to the person beside you, smooth and too far round, big dark eyes catching the strip-lights — and the want did not go anywhere, that was the horror of it, the want stayed exactly where it was and the new knowledge simply moved in alongside it and started rearranging some things.
He wanted you.
And being Simon, he did not do the sensible thing and walk away. He did the research.
The thing about dating Simon, you would learn, is that you have never in your life been so well fed.
You understood it maybe six weeks in, when you opened his fridge expecting the usual bachelor wasteland and found it stocked like he was provisioning for a siege. Yogurt. Three kinds of cheese. A bowl of cut fruit under cling film. A tin labeled ‘FROG LEGS’.
It was risk management dressed up as romance, which in fairness is mostly what romance is… Isn’t it?
He'd taken Soap's splinter and built a guideline out of it. He knows — he has read, in studies he will deny owning — that the trouble starts when you're hungry. Or stressed. Or both, which is the cocktail that turns a nice evening into something a coroner writes up.
He has constructed an entire relationship on the single principle of never ever letting you get to that point.
You'll be reaching for him on the sofa, hand sliding up under his shirt, mouth at the hot pulse in his throat, and he'll go rigid and say, in that flat rumble of his, "When d’you last eat?"
"Simon," you sigh,
"Tha’ s’not an answer, love."
"I'm not hungry–,"
"I saw you skipped lunch."
He watches a lot. He watches you eat with open, naked satisfaction, and the first time you caught him at it you'd put your fork down and said ‘did you want some?’ and he'd said ‘no, you have it,’ and meant it with his whole strange heart.
The man can produce a plate of food out of thin air, and there's no point arguing, because he'll simply outlast you, planted there immovable as a boulder until you've eaten enough that his shoulders come down from around his ears.
He's never once said the word out loud. Cannibalism. He skirts it like a tripwire. Early on you'd tilted your head at him a degree too sharp while he was shaving — honestly just affection — and caught his eye in the mirror, and he'd nicked his own jaw and not flinched at the blood at all, only at you. Razor frozen halfway up his neck. The muscle in his cheek jumped and his pupils shrank to pinpricks and you'd thought: Oh. He's frightened. Big, terrible Ghost, who garrotes men in their sleep, scared witless by the tilt of your head.
You felt bad for almost a full minute.
You have, in fairness, never confirmed or denied a thing. When he goes still and careful you let him. It's the most romantic thing anyone's ever done for you, this grim devout terror, and you're not about to spoil it with reassurance.
Soap, for the record, has really no idea what he started. He'll see the two of you in the canteen, Simon angling the better-fed plate toward you and think, good lad, taking my advice.
Simon had you down — the eyes that hold on him no matter where he moves, that dark point in each one that stays, tracking, while the rest of your face goes soft and human; the too-far head-turn; the way your hands fold up against your chest when you go truly still, wrists tucked, prayer-shaped.
He did not account for the wings.
You hadn't told him because you genuinely forget they're there — folded flat along your spine, a faint seam under the skin, a sheen across your shoulder blades he'd assumed was an old scar. You can't really fly. You never thought to mention them. Plus, it seemed like he knew plenty.
But now he's got you under him with your shirt long gone and his mouth working at the junction of your neck and collar, and there's none of the careful bracing tonight — he fed you an hour ago, he made sure, he watched you finish — and now there's just his weight and his hands and the husky sounds he makes against your skin. One big palm splays flat on your stomach and slides lower, fingers finding you already slick, stroking slow over your clit until your hips chase it on their own. "So soft, love," he murmurs, like he's not shaking. He gets two fingers inside you, curls them, and your whole spine bows off the mattress.
That's when they snap open.
In the dark it's monstrous; a sudden unfolding of something unknown and far too wide for the room, fanning from your back in a wash of color he can't quite name in the half-light. A deep iridescent purple shot through with flares of red, eyespots blooming towards the tips. One instant flat girl, the next a thing twice your size.
Simon goes to stone, shuts down, every system offline. This is it, he thinks — this is the bit where she takes the head. His fingers still inside you. He holds his breath, bracing.
You make a small strangled noise and pull them back down.
They fold away almost as fast as they came, gone into brackets around your spine, and you throw an arm over your face and refuse to look at him. Your ears are hot. He can feel it where his jaw rests on your cheek.
"Sorry," you whisper. "That just— happens sometimes. It– it doesn't mean anything bad, I swear… just… you… just feels good, is all.”
The single most dangerous woman he's ever shared a bed with has flashed her startle display because he got two fingers knuckle deep inside of her, and now she's mortified, hiding her face like a kid. Four months of Soap's splinter works its way loose, pushing out of his muscle, and falls out somewhere in the dark, and Simon — who has never in his life felt safe and certainly never expected to find it here, of all the deranged places — starts to come softly apart with relief. He pulls himself back to look at you.
"Le’me see you," he says, and peels your arm off your face, and when you do his eyes are doing something you've never seen on him: wet at the edges, wide open, not afraid of you at all.
Worse than not afraid. Pleased with himself.
He leans back down and kisses you hard, pushing his fingers deeper and says it against your mouth because he’s got nothing left to lose: "Do it again. Want to watch."
So you do.
And Simon fucks you slow and then not slow at all, and every time he tips you over they snap wide behind you and fill the room with color, and by the third time he's stopped flinching and started hunting it, smug, learning the exact angle that does it. When he finally comes it's with his forehead pressed to yours and your wings open around the both of you like something out of a church window, and he's saying something into your jaw, rough and ruined, that takes you a second to parse as all mine, there she is, there's my good girl.
Afterward you bite him. Just a little on the shoulder, just to be a menace, licking the taste of iron from your canine.
He doesn't even twitch. "Knew it," he says into your hair, wrecked and grinning where you can't see. "Tellin’ Soap he was right."
so if you not on testosterone you are not a trans right? then what makes you a “man”? your brain? maybe you should go to the psychologist? (not hate)
Hi nonnnyyy :3 usually I delete these asks but considering its pride month, I wanna make something clear to all my Trans folk on my page!
I support trans folk regardless of their efforts towards a physical transition.
There are many reasons someone may be unable to achieve gender affirming care, whether that be from lack of finances or medical issues or personal beliefs. Regardless they are still trans and just as valid as someone who's been on hormones for years.
More than that, I support trans folk regardless of the amount of dysphoria they experience! Gender is far too complex to boil down into dysphoria and a desire to transition. The only thing that makes someone a man is if they say they are one. That's literally it. Yes I'm serious.
If you want to look more into gender and why transmed thinking is harmful, my friend @profbuppy in gender studies recommended these to read: [light reading] [medium reading] [heavy reading]
Feel like Gaz would absolutely share his partner with weird Ghost who can't flirt to save his life
Omg yesss but also a dynamic i love is established gaz x weird!ghost that can go one of two ways🤤
First way: ghost shyly pointing out reader at their local bar, because he's been watching you frequent the place for weeks but he's on a strict "no first contact" rule after he tried to flirt last time
Gaz coming up to you, smooth talking, honeyed words and warm touches. He's charming in the practiced way most military guys fail to be, handsome, too. Only for him to say "me and my partner were hoping to get to know you" and you look over his shoulder to see six foot-no way ghost just stood staring dead-eyed at you in the back corner.
Fucking somehow you end up dating them?? You swear it's sorcery.
Second way: ghost disappears for a week, not unusual of him, only to come back with weird!reader at his heels. Ghost proudly showing off his new find to gaz. Apparently you both bonded over the invasive bugs you found on a dead deer on the side of the road.
And gaz, because he is horribly in love with ghost and all his weirdness, is fucking obsessed with you too.
He's already planning how to sort out you moving in while you and ghost look at his "ideal snacks" cupboard in the kitchen.
What’s your take on people wanting censorship on Ao3?
For every argument I've heard in support of it, I've heard tenfold against it ┐(￣ヮ￣)┌ I personally think no well-read adult would be in support of it :3
I am so tired of short-attention-span, trim-the-fat culture.
All writing advice these days is for how to write like Chuck Palahniuk. "Cut 'think', cut 'feel', cut 'wonder' - only action, only pushing forward, show and move and move and move." What if I could emulate this style, and still don't want to? What if I want to write like Henry James, with three paragraphs of introspective musings between each dialogue line?
The music advice is, "make it shortform, make it Tik-Tok compatible, make it punchy, hit the refrain as soon as possible." What if I want that 10-minute prog rock piece? What if I want that symphony? What if I want it slow and luxurious and lazy?
Movies. Series. Poetry. Bodies. Everything is "trimmed trimmed trimmed trimmed, stripped bare, you have three seconds to win me over, make it airport chic." I don't want to win you over, then, I guess.
I want the fat left it.
I want the pleasure and the indolence and the indulgence.
Fuck this art-advice that's always "your art needs Ozempic."
Basket seastar!hybrid reader who is used to being a little...left out. Too many branching limbs, the standard human-like trunk and shoulders extending at the elbow in not a single arm but multiple splits, a vast fern-like explosion of arm/hand/finger things, constantly shifting and exploring. A nightmare to manage with clothes so you often modify your uniform to be sleeveless, which means everyone gets a direct view of your limbs.
And none of them like it.
Too creepy, too weird and the movement freaks people out, the way the tiniest of phalanges curls and twists. You train yourself to wind the fronds tight together, make a single or double limb, but inevitably you lose control and it all explodes out again.
You learn to stay in the back of the room, to hide when possible, and even the skills that brought you to the 141- the way you can type a code, write a message, and field strip a weapon all simultaneously- are better off in the shadows, where your new team can't get too...upset. Can't snap and sneer, wiping off their arms and hands if they accidentally touch you, shoving you away if your fronds start to reach for them or anything they're holding.
"The fuck're you doin' back here?"
You look up at your lieutenant. Ghost is glaring down at you, dark eyes scowling out of his balaclava. "Um...eating?" Your hand-frond curls around another French fry. Salt, oil, potato, a preservative in the potato. Greasy fingers that prepped it all onto the tray.
"Yeah, and why alone? Team eats together, that's the rule," he says, and jerks his thumb over to the table he and the sergeants are at. He grabs your tray, and you don't have a choice but to follow.
The other men welcome you warmly, and to your astonishment, they don't skitter away as your phalanges spread over the table, touching their trays, an instinct you can't fully reign in. Soap's drink slides across the table towards you, and you wince, fronds peeling away from it. Aluminum, paint, fresh water in the condensation, and your microscopic hooks leave little marks in the logo.
"Sorry! Sorry, I can...get you a new one..." You trail off, because he's shrugging and taking his drink back, touching it easily.
"Eh, if I was that worried about it, I'd get it myself. You're fine, love," he adds, and your throat is tight. Is this really all it takes? One tiny kindness?
Gaz grins. "Look, I know you're worried, but we really do not give a shit about all- this," he gestures to your wide, branching baskets of arms, "outside of what it means for our missions. Do you know how many weird bugs that one has brought home?"
He nods to your left, and you look over to Ghost, where he's examining the delicate phalanges that have spread over his arm with the care and focus of a master watchmaker. He strips off a glove, and your breath catches in your chest as he touches the very tip of a frond with his finger- a tiny burst of taste, salt-skin-oil-cotton, the base building blocks of the man called Ghost- and shakes it solemnly, like he's meeting you for the first time.
Soap pats your shoulder, and doesn't twitch when your arm splits in surprise. "Not that you're a bug! But, y'know, when you get two hours in a transport home being told all about the way this beetle works and lives, you start to see the beauty in the strange. And nothing's stranger than our LT!"
He's grinning, easy and relaxed even as your arms start to steal his spoon. Stainless steel, oils from his skin, cheap plastic handle. Gaz loses a couple of his own French fries, and takes a few of yours in return, and you sit there with your arms wide open, a basket getting bigger with every surprised, delighted thump of your heart.
How do you think Price would react the next morning if he got drunk and hit reader like they were one of his soldiers?
Ohhh nonny I don't think price is surviving to the next morning if he hits you.
If he comes home well and truly drunk, pissed enough to be yelling at you over something, so far gone that he hits you? There will he a split second of clarity the moment after the hit, realizing the boundary he's crossed, before he doubles down and refuses to apologize.
He yells more, gets in your face and tears you down like he would a soldier after a fight. Until you're physically shaking and flinching away from him, making price feel like a real man. Like someone in control before he stomps off to sleep.
Which leaves you, terrified tucked behind the sofa you bought with john when you first moved in. You do the only thing you can think of, face already bruising, and call the number john gave you "only for emergencies. Doesn't matter what, he'll help you."
"...ello?" The voice that picks up is rough, grainy.
"I...I didn't know who to call...." you choke on a sob. Terrified. "I don't know what to do."
Which is how, two hours later you're drinking a milk-shake in some diner parking lot, legs dangling over the bed of ghosts truck while he makes phonecalls far away enough you can't hear anything. You don't know what to feel. You love john, of course you do he's the man of your dreams but...but you've never feared for your life like that before.
It's fine. You decide not to think about it. Simon will handle it, he assured you. He even promised not to kill john when you had panicked and begged him to be nice, explaining that john was just drunk and he's usually never like that—
Yeah. Simon said he'll just talk to price, set things straight.
He doesn't tell you that said talking to will happen in the middle of the woods with a baseball bat and duct tape.
TAGS
#heartache of chaos - mlp au | Everything AU related
#heartache of chaos - mlp au fanart | All fanart related
JOURNAL STATUS -
Harmony Status - HERE
The Fragmented - COMING SOON
The Discorded - COMING SOON
The Jokes - COMING SOON
The Jokesters - COMING SOON
The Barn - COMING SOON
Discord - COMING SOON
The Royals - COMING SOON
STORY -
OMENS - How Twilight Loses her Head! | In Progress
Parts 1 | 2 | 3
MARES IN THE SKY - Fluttershy looks up. | Look Here!
THINGS NEVER SAID - Twilight and Fluttershy have a talk. | Look Here!
HEAD IN THE CLOUDS - How did Fluttershy react when seeing Rainbow Dash?
LAUGHTER IS CONTAGIOUS - Pinkie Pie notices signs!
ERIS and EROS - Cadence and Discord air their grievances
FAQ -
Were you inspired by Uzumaki? - Yes I was! Heavily in fact.
Were you inspired by Look Outside? - I've heard of it, but no. (Bet it's fun though!)
What are your Inspirations? - Look Here!
Where's Applejack? - Lost in a Barn.
Can we see Discord? - Don't you mean Dizzy Spell?
What's going to happen to Fluttershy? - Change.
Why does Discord call Shy "Entropy?" - They understand each other.
Where's Spike? - Hiding. | Look Here!
Where's the CMC? - Managing. | Look Here!
What about Zecora? - Thriving. | Look Here!
Were the curses put on the mane 6 personal? - If you murder someone in your dreams are you a murderer?
What happened in the Wedding? - Our love is god.
The Royal Sisters? - "They're thieves is what they are, taking the natural law and placed 'order' upon it because it's what they believe is pure. They casted me aside because they feared what they didn't understand. The stars, die, and the moon is but a mirror. I however, will always stay."
Cadence and Shining Armor? - Even Zeus feared Eros, and Chaos truly resented cupid for making them fall for Mother Nature. The arrow still stings, and it singes to their very core, but they can never lay a claw on them. For they felt mortal.
Flurry Heart? - There's no child
Changelings? - What have you done...?
Sunset Shimmer? - You'd be surprised.
How does Flutterbat play a part in all of this? - Love the Unloved.
Where's Discord? - Bleeding.
Why? - It came to me in a dream, and haunted me to make it.
🌾trace my art, copy it, study it, make your own prints of my drawings and books at home, use my art as your icon/background/etc without asking, use whatever you like as inspiration. i do not care about copyright, i do not care about IP or art theft & i do not see those as legitimate issues to give a fuck about. this is not sarcasm. have FUN. stop asking my permission for these things YOU DO NOT NEED PERMISSION from any artist to do these. only thing you can't do is tag my art any variation of #honse without me blocking you
🌾i make a lot of art with Christian and specifically Catholic themes as i am interested in that, but don't get it twisted. i am a Christ Hater and god isn't real
Reverse Engineering done. @redartifex - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
